


by hearts and hands made fast

by Roccolinde



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x04 divergent, Angst, F/M, Pining, Secret Marriage, and Hopeful Endings, probably some deconstruction of Romantic Ideas as a treat, there's minor canonical character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25920433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde
Summary: But he’d held her wrist even then, thumb stroking,Marry me, he’d said,marry me and never acknowledge it if you do not wish, but marry me as I should have married you that night and every other. If I’m to die, he’d said (with her, he had not),let me die as your husband.A grand romantic gesture has repercussions neither Jaime nor Brienne had foreseen.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 188
Kudos: 457
Collections: Jaime x Brienne Fic Exchange 2020





	1. oaths made in reverential fear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImberReader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImberReader/gifts).



> A slightly belated gift to the lovely ImberReader. With eternal thanks to those dear friends who have helped make this fic what it is. I do hope that, one day, the original idea for your prompts is made real, but for now I hope this will suffice. From the prompt: _"For all the ugly things they had done, their entwined hands looked beautiful together."_
> 
> Title and chapter titles are all John Donne quotes, for reasons that I will explain sometimes after author identities are revealed. Title comes from _An Epithalamion, or Mariage Song on the Lady Elizabeth, and Count Palatine being married on St. Valentines Day_. Say that ten times fast.
> 
>  **Note (August 22)** : in the spirit of the exchange and due to my complete failure to finish posting in time, this story will remain anon until the fic is complete. Hopefully not long ♥

The Godswood is still showing signs of the battle, though it was weeks ago now. Her hands are shaking and the snow beneath the heart tree crunches as she kneels and Jaime hasn’t let go of her, not since the courtyard, _They’ll burn that city_ and _I know, I know, I can’t—I can’t **not**_ and _You don’t have to die with her_ except she knew even then… She knew he would, as she’d known he would leave, as she’d known that he loved her and that didn’t _matter_ , not when—

“Do you have a ribbon?” he asks, and she almost laughs—she does not carry silk ribbons or pretty jewels, but she takes his sword as she had not donned her own ( _Widow’s Wail_ , she remembers and nearly laughs again) and cuts a strip from her robe. It was a gift from Sansa, this robe, warm and beautiful, and now it will— 

She will have to bind their hands, and the Seven knew if the Old Gods have their own vows but it doesn’t matter, this is for them, that’s what he’d said, when his face was cold between her hands and his eyes were pleading with her _please please let me go don’t make this hurt_ but also _I don’t want to go, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t want to go and I must_ , and she knew that well enough to let him. But he’d held her wrist even then, thumb stroking, _Marry me_ , he’d said, _marry me and never acknowledge it if you do not wish, but marry me as I should have married you that night and every other_. _If I’m to die,_ he’d said ( _with her_ , he had not), _let me die as your husband._

And she should have said no, she’d meant to say no, it’s ridiculous, but he is earnest and she _wants_ , she wants the impossible and she will take this instead; a cloud moves from the moon and the light hits their clasped hands just so and she gives a choked sob as she slowly wraps the quilted fabric, around and around, binding them together as they recite the words they’ve known since childhood. _I am his and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days_ and she does not wonder how many days that will be—a moon’s turn, perhaps, less if the weather is good and he rides hard. It does not matter—she wants the impossible and she will take this instead, and perhaps the world will remember them in song, the knights who loved but could never set duty aside. 

Then it is done and she feels no different; he is already rising from the ground and soon he will retrieve his hitched horse and she will watch him ride away and some small, secret part of her will die but she will not regret it. A tragic romance is more than she’d imagined for herself, a brief and fleeting love, but it _is_ love and it is not all she is in any case. 

She unwraps the hand binding, fingers brushing against his palm, his knuckles as she does, and she does not look up; she can feel his eyes on her, feel the way his breath hitches, and that is already more than she wishes to know. His hand turns on the last pass of the cloth, and when she pulls her hand away he grasps the material tightly, as if frightened it would slip away. 

“Bring it,” she says, her hand folding over his, the soft flesh of her palm against sharp bones.

He steps back, nods, and even in the faint moonlight she can see the tears in his eyes, the way his cheek pulls as his jaw clenches, but he says nothing and neither does she. She’d pulled on soft boots, in her haste, and now that… she feels the cold now in her feet, her hands. She draws the robe tighter, wraps her arms around her body, motions towards the path from the Godswood with a tilt of her head.

The horse is still in the courtyard, of course, ready to bear Jaime south to death and duty. He hesitates, his footsteps slowing; it would be easy to grab him, pull him indoors, but she cannot ask that of him.

He stops, several strides from his mount. Turns to face her, a breath away. She can see the lines around his eyes, the grey in his beard. 

“Do not mourn me long,” he says; his thumb strokes her cheek, the heavy wool still clenched in his hand rubbing against her jawline. 

“I’ll mourn as I like,” she snaps, and he gives a soft laugh, a sound she instinctively seizes in her mind, locks away firmly in her memories to revisit when the nights are long. He had laughed often, in their rooms, a quiet, brief sound as if he did not remember how; he had laughed often and yet it had not been enough. She raises her hands, rests them against his neck. “You’re a good man, Jaime.”

“In time, perhaps, I might have been,” he says. 

_It is not a matter of tally marks, this many good against this many bad_ , she does not say; he is dying, his pulse beneath her hands little more than a flutter, the light fading from his eyes every moment they stand here, and words are wind. She cannot keep him here and she cannot make him live, and she pries her hands from him and steps away.

“Goodbye, Ser Jaime,” she says, grateful her voice only wavers and does not fail her completely. She can give him this, at least: his name, his title, the dignity of being known.

He studies her face for one long moment, and she bites her tongue, the coppery tang of blood tainting her saliva—she will not voice the words clawing at her, _you’re a good man, good man, I love you, stay with me, stay with me, forsake your vows and duties and your own sense of what is right, stay with me, you don’t have to die, let me save you for my own selfish gain._ She hopes he sees what he needs to see.

The cloth torn from her robe is still in his fist when he mounts his horse. He is almost at the gates when she begins to cry. 

* * *

When she finally wakes the next morning, exhausted from the tears, from watching him ride away time and time again whenever she’d closed her eyes, she forgets for a brief moment why it is her head is heavy, her body wrung out. But the bed is empty and his sword is gone, and if the hem of her robe was not torn and damp from melted snow she would believe that to be the dream instead. She hastily dresses in breeches and tunic, ignoring the robe where it hangs, washes her face and hands in chilled water, slicks her hair back. (He’d wrapped a loose strand around his finger one night, teased her that it was longer than he’d imagined, the confirmation that he _had_ thought of it… It is too long, and she ought to have cut it weeks ago, but there had been the undead, and then the living, and she hadn’t.) There is a small looking glass, and Brienne checks her face in it; her eyes are reddened and slightly swollen, but no worse than people would expect from her—one of the ladies might gently cluck and advise her which cream would help, but that would be it—and perhaps she is slightly paler than usual. Nothing to betray the truth.

She must speak with Sansa, explain why— Her blunt nails dig crescents against her palm, and she takes a shaky breath. She must speak with Sansa and inform her that Ser Jaime has ridden to King’s Landing and thought it best to leave before it became a spectacle, for the good of all.

That is precisely what she recites from her quarters to her lady’s, but when she is admitted to Sansa’s private chambers the young woman takes one look at Brienne’s face and nods.

“Should we send men to retrieve him?”

“No.” Her voice sounds so small. “He has ridden to be with his sister, but he will not move against the North, or Daenerys.” 

“You’re certain?”

“I would have slain him myself, if I was not.”

“Very well. He will not be welcomed in the North again.”

Neat, simple. It does not matter, he will not live long enough to come north again even if he wished to, but the words scrape against the wounds like salt.

“As you say, my lady.”

Sansa turns away, ostensibly selecting a necklace for the day but Brienne knows it is to give them both privacy as she says, “I am sorry. I believed he truly loved you.”

“He does,” Brienne replies. Her hand finds the pommel of Oathkeeper, the familiar shape digging into her palms as she clutches it tightly. “I know it must seem… He is a good man, and he loves me, and still he rode south. I would not have believed such contradictions possible, once.” 

“You deserved better, Brienne.”

_Deserved_ is a strange word, rooted in a belief that the world is just. Brienne knows better—if there is to be justice, it is on them to create it. And yet still it stings: in a just world she might have deserved better, deserved a man who was not torn between love and duty and a need to fight impossible fights, but she still thinks she would have wanted Jaime. 

“That is kind of you to say,” she says. “It will not impact my duties.”

Sansa watches her for a long moment from the corner of her eye, but says nothing more, just moves onto her schedule for the day, and if it is lighter than usual, if it gives Brienne more time to regain control of her grief, neither one of them acknowledges it. 

The news spreads through Winterfell—by midday the conversation in a room dies when Brienne enters, and when the northerners meet her eyes it is with pity or doubt in equal measures; it is not unfamiliar, but she’d forgotten the sting of it. Podrick takes to walking with her unless she sends him on a task, his loyalty absolute, and while she knows she will grow accustomed to it once more she is grateful for the company. It is better than the voice in her head that repeats and repeats the night before in moments of silence: waking to an empty bed and _knowing_ ; him waiting for her, glowing in the firelight; her hand shaking as she’d dressed, fearing she would be too late and certain it would not change but she had to _try_ , just as much as he did; the grasp on her wrist, fingertips against the soft skin there; how he’d undressed her, kissed her, how he’d sucked a mark on her collarbone and she’d dug her nails against his back so hard they’d left marks; the click of hooves against stone as he’d ridden away, _I am his and he is mine_ ; the cold bite of winter that ran through it all.

“Ser Brienne,” Podrick says, and she shakes off the memories and forces a smile.

“I am fine, Pod,” she says. “Come, we’re due in the yards.”

* * *

It doesn’t get better. Oh, it _does_ in that she stops reaching for him as she wakes around the time he must reach the Neck, and the whispers have died away by the time he will have hit the crossroads. But it doesn’t get _better_ , marking the turn of days and knowing with every sunrise he is closer to death, that the memory of his hand on her fades with every mile. She touches herself one night, when she cannot sleep; it is an old habit, the languid pleasure of release that lulls her towards dreams, but it ends in frustration and tears—she cannot cast him from this bed, cannot bear to, and so this is lost to her. She dresses and heads to the yards instead, thrashes a training dummy with no finesse. The reality of battle is harder, more chaotic than she’d been taught, and there is value in this aggressive relentlessness. 

(She is exhausted, the next morning, her muscles burning with every move, and she holds herself a little straighter to hide it. It does not help; that is the same morning Bran Stark asks to speak with her, tells her the rules of a northern wedding. _They saw_ , he says, _but that is not what makes it true._ )

Days turn weeks turn a full month. The first fog of grief has burnt away in the inevitability of sunlight and time, but so have her memories faded—the precise timbre of his voice; the feel of his body against hers, in sex but also in all those tender little brushes as they’d gone about their days, a secret thrill; the musky scent captured on his skin after a long day of hard work. It only makes the sharp spikes of memories more visceral, a different sort of pain. She is at dinner one evening when she reaches for a goblet and is struck by the memory of his hand on hers the night of the feast, the easy communication, and switches to a tankard instead; she finds a shirt he had left behind, captured between headboard and wall, and sniffs it before she can stop herself—the cold has dulled his scent, but there is just enough lingering to remember the night the shirt had been shucked and thrown, the desperate frantic urge between them to be naked, close, skin and skin and skin, the fervent eagerness of his tongue. 

She wonders if she will know, the day he dies. It’s a silly, romantic notion not well suited to her, but it feels…. One morning she will rise and it will be the last time they are beneath the same sky, the next she will rise to a world where he is naught but a corpse. The idea that she might know the day is ridiculous, but that she might _not_ feel such a shift in the world seems equally unfathomable. 

It is all for nothing though. She is in the yards when she hears of the raven’s arrival, moments before Lady Sansa summons her; it is not enough time to prepare, but she cannot shy away and so she goes. The walk feels longer than it is, but she will neither drag her feet nor hurry to greet this news. A servant is leaving just as she arrives, and he ducks his head to her and the movement fills her with dread—there could be no other reason for a raven, but she had had hope nonetheless, a small and brittle thing easily shattered. She is used to this though, buries the sharp-edged pain deep so she can do her duty, can seem untouched. 

In the solar, Sansa is pacing before a window, pausing to look over Winterfell. The cold light of a winter morning throws her profile into sharp relief, eerie and unreal. 

“My lady,” Brienne says.

Sansa starts, turning to face her, the illusion breaking; she looks simply Sansa now. “Ahh, Brienne. Forgive me. The news from the south is… troubling.”

“Your brother is well?”

“So it seems. Our queen has been victorious.” 

All the things Sansa does not say can be heard all the same— she does not trust Daenerys, and perhaps rightly so. The young Targaryen’s dreams are noble, but her methods questionable, and Jon choosing to bend the knee to her is grave indeed.

“You will wish your army recalled as soon as possible,” Brienne says. An unguarded north is an endangered one, though no army will withstand a dragon. 

“Yes, but not…” Sansa sighs, and Brienne notices the paper between her fingers. “Lord Tyrion has written, not Jon. Here.” 

With shaking fingers, Brienne reaches for the proffered slip of parchment. Reads it. One hand flies to her mouth to stifle the sob, the other balling up the missive. It doesn’t matter—the single reading has seared it in her memory. King’s Landing has fallen, Sansa is to go south to bend the knee, and Jaime and Cersei Lannister both live. 

_They will face trial for their crimes in a moon’s turn,_ Tyrion had written _. Please tell Ser Brienne it is all the time I could barter._

“We will depart in the morning,” Sansa says, “but if you must leave now, I will give my blessing.”

Brienne looks to her friend, sees the sympathy written there. Some part of her is already halfway to the city, but she cannot...

“No, thank you,” she says. “He had his obligations, as I have mine. I will ride with you.”

She had thought him dead, had resigned herself to the fact the night he’d left, but she did not think she would have to watch him die. When she had let him go, she did not think she would have to watch her husband die. She is not certain she can bear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from _Woman's Constancy_ , which is probably very much _not_ the greatest poem to think of in regards to this ship--the gist of it is a man accusing his lover of all the reasons she may foresake her vows and then admitting her may as well--but I never claimed to be an intellectual.


	2. sweetest love, I do not go (for weariness of thee)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from _Sweetest love, I do not go_ , because that whole poem is... very Jaime-at-the-parting, or at least how I interpret it. Just with gentler words.
>
>> Sweetest love, I do not go,  
> For weariness of thee,  
> Nor in hope the world can show  
> A fitter love for me;  
> But since that I  
> Must die at last, 'tis best  
> To use myself in jest  
> Thus by feign'd deaths to die.  
> 

He’s so cold. Every time he rises far enough from his mind to be aware of anything, it is the cold that strikes him first, bone deep and aching. Then it’s the memory of tear tracks on her face, blue eyes and pink skin, as if a mockery of her house colours; he shies away from it, wraps his reins tighter around his hand—the leather would bite against him, but it’s softened by the fabric strip he’d hastily tied to it, bumbling fingers and teeth knotting it solidly. Drifts, drifts, far away from here, from the long road and certain death and the woman he’d left behind. ( _You’re a good man, you don’t have to die with her._ ) Far away from the lover he’d served too long, the sister he’d abandoned to face their crimes. Away from the gaping maw that is his death, unyielding and inevitable. 

(He thinks of the Casterly Rock of his childhood, when the setting sun had played over the sea and stone and set it all alight. Of Arthur Dayne knighting him, the youthful sense of invincibility, the joy of the fight. Cersei, fierce and unrelenting the day she wed Robert, rare soft moments, the bite of her nails on his back, her teeth at his throat. (He _dreams_ of Tarth, always at a distance.))

There’s an inn, one night, but a dead man has no need of comforts and he does not bother again. It is better, this way. Perhaps the cold will claim him, his body food for wolves, his name fading into obscurity; a more merciful end than he deserves, but fitting. Yet dawn after dawn he wakes and rides again, night after night he builds the fire that might save him.

He’s captured not far outside of King’s Landing; he’d gone away longer and longer the further south he’d went, and one moment he was packing away his bedroll and trying to shake the vague impression of a dream that demanded his attention ( _she’s shifting in her sleep, her body encroaching upon his space, and he moves to welcome her, her hair tickling against his nose_ ) and the next he is surrounded by northerners who _don’t_ kill him on sight, which is a surprise. He realises, as they demand he dismount, that he’d forgotten to glove his right hand, an error so foolish he almost laughs.

“None of that, Kingslayer,” sneers one of the men, shoving his shoulder. “You’d best have a reason for being here.”

“Well, you know,” Jaime sneers back, glancing towards his horse—the strip of robe is still tied to his reins, and he wonders briefly if he could fight long enough to grab it. “I thought it might be nice to save your new queen a return up north just to take my head, but then I heard she planned to burn the city and I _really_ didn’t like that. So I figured I’d just stroll around until one of you fine gentlemen found me and we could have this _riveting_ conversation.”

Not his finest wit, admittedly, but he was otherwise occupied trying to judge the hour and his precise location, the chances of escape. There’s only four of them and they haven’t taken his sword, but he finds the desire to fight has already drained from him; he mounts a token protest and concedes. They march him back to the camp, tie him to a post in one of the supply tents and leave him for Jon Snow. The man barely looks at Jaime when he arrives, instead stalking to a table to go over what Jaime is certain are battle plans. Seven hells, the man is clearly a tactical genius. Cersei might emerge victorious yet, and wouldn’t that by an irony. 

Giving a huff of derision, Jaime reclines as easily as his bonds will allow and waits for an interrogation that does not come. 

* * *

It is not until the next night that Tyrion bothers to visit him, a fact Jaime lets pass with little more than a questioning eyebrow.

“Don’t,” says Tyrion. “It has taken me all this time to— What are you _doing_ here, Jaime?”

“We both know the answer to that, brother.”

“Even now?” Tyrion sighs, shoulders slumping. “But of course, even now.”

“She’s alone.”

“She has half a million hostages with her,” Tyrion counters. “And what of me? I’ll release you and you’ll save her, take the boat I’ve arranged, run off to Essos and _I_ will be alone, because you loved Cersei’s cunt more than your little brother.”

The words hit, distantly, like the memory of hailstones. 

“That’s not—” Jaime shakes his head. “If it were you there, if I was complicit in your crimes, I would not leave you to face them alone.”

Tyrion snorts. “It worked so well for you the last time.” 

“I don’t regret it.”

His brother’s face falls. “You are the only one who ever loved me. The only one who even tried.” Jaime opens his mouth to protest, but Tyrion pushes on, pulls out a key. “If saving you means saving Cersei, it is a small price to pay. I just wish I understood why.”

“You said it yourself. I knew who she was, I always did. To abandon her now is a coward’s choice.” 

Tyrion shakes his head. “I thought you were happy with your—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Lady knight.”

He had been. Every morning, every evening, every minor quarrel and—

“Leave her out of this.” His voice cracks. 

“No.”

“Tyrion…”

“Did you tell Ser Brienne you were leaving?” Jaime recoils at her name, but Tyrion pays no mind. “I can imagine how well that went—’Sorry, ser, but it seems I really am the sister-fucking coward everyone believed me to be.’ Or perhaps you snuck out of her bed with your tail between your legs and your cock still half hard—”

Jaime jerks against his bonds. “Shut up!”

Tyrion looks at him, then nods. “You _are_ in there. Thought she’d finally managed to turn you into a damned wight.”

“Piss off. It’s hardly as if she led me around by my cock.”

“No, dear brother, it is _exactly_ like that. Perhaps she loved you once with the same blind devotion as you give her, but if so it was many years ago.”

“And yet I _chose_ to hurt our kin, to push a child from a window. It was not her hands bloodied.”

“It was not her hands who fought in Winterfell. It was not her hands that freed me.” Jaime does not react, cannot react; if he shows weakness, Tyrion will strike, a Lannister no matter what monarch he serves. “It was not her hands that armed and armoured Brienne of Tarth, upheld an oath to a dead woman. It is not her hands that knighted the woman, defended her. It was not _Cersei_ willing to die for—”

“Leave my wife out of this,” he roars, and realises only a breath too late—

“Your wife?”

_Let me die as your husband._ Fuck.

Jaime sighs. “She won’t— She may not wish to…” What words could suffice? “Treat her as my widow, though she may not wish it known. Anything she needs. Money. Aid from the crown. Her reputation….” And then, a plea, “Don’t hurt her, Tyrion.”

“You seem to have done that enough.”

“I had to. I _had_ to. I didn’t—” 

It was all he could do, in that moment. _I love you_ and _I’ll protect you_ and _Let me have this, let me prove that I am yours even if I can’t stay_. It was all he could do and it was not enough, and now he is a dead man. 

Tyrion looks at him with disgust, slipping the key back into his pocket. 

“You know, on second thought,” Tyrion says, “I’ve changed my mind. You can stay here. I’m sure Queen Daenerys will be happy to arrange a public execution once this is all over. It makes for great entertainment.”

* * *

It is three, perhaps four days later when a large cheer goes up throughout the camp shortly after dawn. The cause of the raucous celebrations becomes clear quickly—Cersei Lannister has been captured, the _she-wolf of Winterfell_ was the one to do it. Jaime twists his wrists, the bonds chafing against the skin, and waits. It doesn’t take long—by midday Tyrion has returned, flanked by two northern soldiers and Grey Worm; men Jaime had fought beside, briefly, men he knew by sight.

“Up, my lord,” spits one, releasing Jaime and hauling him to his feet. “Her Grace wishes to speak with you.”

For an absurd moment he thinks they are to take him to Cersei, but they march past the fire where Cersei is being held and towards the commanders’ tents and he realises how ridiculous the presumption had been.

(She’d been regal, even now, head held high despite the chains, her expression cool. He expected a pang—of familiarity, of love—but found that for the first time in his memory, he did not recognise his twin at all. It is no comfort.) 

“For the love of the Gods, Jaime,” Tyrion says as they approach, “mind your tongue. They have Cersei, and with it the Golden Company is no threat, but there are still the Lannister forces.”

Jaime stops, turns to Tyrion, ignores the prodding of the blunt end of a weapon against his back. “I will order them to stand down. Whatever Cersei believes about the Crown, they are Lannister men and they answer to me.” 

“Have you finally seen sense and abandoned our sweet sister for your own good?” Tyrion asks, voice laced with sarcasm. 

“I do not look for clemency,” Jaime replies, disgusted.

“No?” There is a sceptical superiority in his brother that grates against him, as if it is so unbelievable that Jaime might act in something but his own interest.

“They are Lannister men,” Jaime repeats, “and therefore my responsibility until your queen strips me of the title. I do it for their lives, and perhaps a chance at peace. A legacy that would horrify our father, I’m sure, but as you conveniently put a crossbow bolt through _that_ complication...”

Tyrion snorts. “I will never understand you, brother.”

“Perhaps that is for the best,” Jaime replies, then shrugs, dons an insouciant air. “Now come, we have an audience with the queen and I doubt she is inclined to be merciful if we are late.”

And without waiting for a reply, he moves towards the tents once more. 


	3. when on a diverse shore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter title is from Donne's [A Valediction: of Weeping](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44132/a-valediction-of-weeping)

They are two days from King’s Landing when Sansa stops Brienne as they dress for the day. 

“You’re to ride ahead, as soon as the camp is packed,” she says. “I wish for you to be certain of our welcome, and arrange for us to be quartered… elsewhere.”

 _Away from Daenerys’ control_ , she does not say, nor _I see you, how you are so often turned to the horizon, how the closer you come the longer you encourage us to ride._ It is embarrassing, being known, but she knows Sansa as well and perhaps that is not the worst thing.

“As you wish, my lady.”

“Take Podrick with you, I will not have you face this alone.”

Brienne forces a small smile. “I’m sure the Queen will be most hospitable, as you were in the North.” _I know what you ask_.

“Of course, we are fortunate to have such a gracious ruler. I merely would not wish to trouble her when her attention must be on the surrender of King’s Landing.”

Within the hour Brienne is travelling along the Kingsroad, Pod at her side.

“Has there been news of Ser Jaime?” he asks, not long after they are out of sight of the group. 

“No.”

Not entirely true—there’d been a message waiting for them in the Riverlands, informing Sansa of the latest developments in Kings Landing, and at the bottom of the raven’s missive Tyrion had hastily scrawled that Ser Jaime had commanded the surrender of Lannister troops and was therefore granted limited freedoms around the castle until the time of his trial. Lady Cersei had no such leniency. But it did not illuminate what she would truly find upon their arrival, and she could not—she can not afford sentimental concern. 

“I’m sure Lord Tyrion—”

“Podrick, less talk, more haste. Lady Sansa wants us to arrive before them, not days behind.”

It is well after dark when they do arrive in King’s Landing—two on horseback are much faster than a large retinue with a wheelhouse for Bran Stark, but it is still a long journey—and they have only just left the horses when a familiar man greets them—Bronn, Brienne remembers after a moment—cursing fondly as he drags Pod off for ‘some high quality entertainment, ya fuck’. Pod only shoots a vaguely apologetic look at Brienne before following him, and Brienne continues into the keep alone. She is exhausted and sore and desperately in need of a bath after a long moon on the road, but there is duty first. 

Jon comes to greet her in the corridor, brow furrowing more than usual; he does not question why Brienne has come ahead, or why the Starks will sleep in the northern camp instead of within the castle when they arrive, merely offers her quarters for the night which she is happy to accept. The dour man seems even more quiet, more tired than Brienne knew him, already smothered beneath the weight of the throne he does not want and has not claimed, and she is sorry for it. 

Still, her room is stocked with fresh water and soap to wash her face and arms and a bed upon which to sleep, which is all that she wishes for that night. Unfortunately, she is barely beneath the blankets when there is a knock on the heavy wooden door, and she groans and drags herself upright.

Tyrion Lannister is on the other side, holding wine and goblets and looking suspiciously smug as he pushes past Brienne to enter her rooms.

“Please, come in,” she says dryly.

“I see my brother has worn off on you.”

She shakes her head and gives an exasperated sigh, “What do you want?”

“I was coming to greet our new arrival, as Hand to the Queen. It’s _courtesy_.”

“It could wait until morning.”

“Could it?” he asks, walking over to a small table and pouring two goblets of wine. 

“Morning, and in public. I have nothing of importance to say.”

“I hear Lady Sansa will be staying outside of King’s Landing,” he leads.

“It seems more than Lord Varys has ears in many places. You serve your Queen, but I serve my lady. If you’re here to ask why, I have no inclination to tell you.”

Tyrion waves his hand and sips from one of the goblets. “Her reasons are transparent, and I’m not inclined to judge her for them. Queen Daenerys is… well, let’s not talk of such dreary things. Have you heard of my brother?”

“That is _less_ dreary a topic?” Brienne asks.

“I thought you would wish to know of his fate.”

For a brief moment she thinks she has arrived too late, that Jaime is dead and she had not known, for days perhaps, but Tyrion lays his free hand on her elbow. 

“It’s not so dire as that.”

She pulls away, schools her features. “I do not understand why Ser Jaime’s fate is my concern.”

“No?” 

The man is arrogantly smug in his question, but it would take more than arrogance to rattle her. “No.”

“You two seemed… close, in Winterfell. I can’t imagine he would have stayed there for many reasons.”

“As I recall, he did not stay.”

Tyrion hums. “Be that as it may, I thought you might wish to know that he is to face a trial for the murder of Aerys Targaryen—”

“He was forgiven for that, Daenerys cannot—” she blurts, then stops herself, pulls herself upright. “That does not seem like it will endear her to Westeros, if people have reason to fear they will be charged for deeds long-addressed.”

Raising his eyebrows in what Brienne thinks might be wry agreement, he continues, “The trial is set for three days time, as is Cersei’s. Her list of crimes is much longer, and not even Jaime can argue against that.”

“I’m sure he tried.”

Tyrion looks at her for a long moment, and then tilts his head. “Drink, Ser Brienne?”

“I don’t partake.”

“Except for that one—”

“Lord Tyrion, I have had a long day after much travel. If you are here to gossip salaciously about your brother’s decisions, I’m sure there’s a chambermaid around here willing to drink wine and suck your cock while you do it. I, however, have no desire for any of this. Please leave.”

Draining first his goblet and then the one he’d poured for Brienne, he studies her and says nothing. Not as he gathers the wine, not as he heads to the door. It is only when his hand is on the latch that he stops, still facing the door with a resigned slump of his shoulders.

“When he was captured, he didn’t try to get to our sister,” he says.

“It is no business of mine if he did,” she replies. Immediately. Flatly. 

Perhaps if she repeats it often enough she may eventually believe it; it will hurt less, in the end. 

* * *

She is not accustomed to sleeping late, and so Brienne is up with the dawn. A servant has brought her saddlebags while she slept, placed them carefully just next to the door, and she takes out a clean shirt and tunic to wear. She will change into her armour after breakfast, but for a walk amongst the Godswood in the early morning she needs only her sword. 

A city the size of King’s Landing is never entirely at rest, and so she passes chambermaids and pages and guards in the halls as she goes, guests who are taking advantage of the fresh air of early morning. None head in the direction of the Godswood though, and as Brienne reaches it she draws a deep breath. Her comfort is less from the trees and flowers and more by the hints of sea air that reach her even before it is in sight, but it _is_ a comfort all the same, and perhaps that is why the sight of Cersei Lannister strikes her with the surety of any well-wielded sword.

The now-deposed queen’s hair is as short as Brienne’s. It is such an absurd thing to notice, inconsequential, and yet it is the first thing Brienne notes. The second is that Cersei might be a prisoner—the guards flanking her carefully prove that well enough—but she is still well-dressed, perfectly poised as she sits upon the bench where Sansa Stark had once prayed as Brienne had watched from on high. Where she watches even now. Cersei is speaking—Brienne is too far to make out her words, but the adamantly gesturing hands tells her that much—and a moment later Jaime walks into her line of sight.

He is still dressed as he was in the north, despite ready access to other clothes, and he’s not shaved his beard. It shouldn’t—it shouldn’t matter, except it _does_ , that it is her Jaime down there, pacing along the path and occasionally responding to his sister’s ire. 

Except, of course, that it is not _her_ Jaime. It is not _Cersei’s_ Jaime. It is simply Jaime, who’d ridden north and ridden south, who’d loved her and left her, a thousand glittering facets but only ever one man. Jaime who had married her (she can still feel his hand in hers as she’d bound them, the freshened calluses, the tremble that might have been her or him equally) and Jaime who’d died in her grasp that long, cold night in the courtyard. 

She watches him, and a horrible, twisting sensation begins to coil in her stomach. He is her _husband_. It had not seemed real, that night, nor any night since. Not when she expected him to die before the truth of it came out. _Grant me this._ But this is— it is not some secret, romantic notion that will matter to no one but them, but a _marriage_ , with all that will entail. All the implications, the complications, the repercussions to them both when the truth comes out. 

He is still pacing, and she sees the moment his eyes catch her frame: the missed step, the joyful lift of his shoulders before he realises— She reels from the railing, and hurries away. 

* * *

He knows Brienne is in King’s Landing—Tyrion had dangled her imminent arrival before him the day before—but the glimpse of her in the Godswood is a bucket of cold water upon his sleeping form, and he is elated and furious both. Not that it matters—he spends all day waiting for her as Cersei paces and growls and demands he _does_ something, that usurping bitch has no business on the throne and Jaime ought to _do_ something. He lets her rage; it is easier to let her meet her death with rage than fear, and it is not as if there is anything he can do. His request that she be moved to better quarters than the cells, be allowed outdoors once a day under heavy supervision, is the only freedom he can give her now, the only freedom that he _will_.

When Brienne does arrive, hours after the evening meal, she is fully-armored and blank faced as she greets them both with a flat, “Ser Jaime. Lady Cersei.”

It is the wrong thing to say, for Cersei snarls and Jaime moves to stand before the two women—he gets only two steps before Brienne is gesturing him to stay where he is. He studies her instead, searching for any hint of the woman he knows—her righteous anger, or her softness, the slight quirk of lips that means a smile. She is granite though, or perhaps the marble of her island home, giving away nothing even to his knowing examination. 

Though it pains him, perhaps it is not a bad thing, for it is only a moment later that Cersei rises from her seat, circles Brienne, her gaze predatory.

“I know you,” she says. 

“We have met, Lady Cersei. More than once.”

Jaime cannot claim to understand the undercurrent between the two women, deep and dangerous, but Brienne does not shy away from Cersei’s needling; his sister has always enjoyed playing with her food before eating it, and yet he does not think his intervention would be welcomed.

“You’re Catelyn Stark’s man,” Cersei says, and shrugs. “Or woman, I suppose.”

Brienne remains unreadable. “I serve Lady Sansa now.”

“Oh, I imagine you do. The poor little dove must feel so safe with you around. Your king is dead, as is your liege lady. My brother lost his hand under your care… Why, she must sleep so soundly.” 

“Cersei!” Jaime hisses, and she turns to him with wide and innocent eyes.

“I’m merely concerned, Jaime,” she purrs, so sweet and intimate he cannot suppress the revulsion that runs through him. “Sansa Stark was our good-sister once, as you recall.”

“And like anyone with sense, she fled from the Lannister name at the earliest opportunity.”

He doesn’t— The words have left his mouth before he can stop them, and for the briefest moment Brienne’s defenses fall and she is _hurt_ , he has hurt her through this nonsensical game he has played with his sister for many years, by the casual cruelness. She turns indifferent again from one breath to the next.

“Lady Sansa will request to sit on the juries for both trials.”

Cersei laughs. “Do you think I would allow such a thing? I have already demanded trial by combat for us both.”

This is the first Jaime has heard of this, but clearly it is not news to Brienne.

“And who is to be your champion?”

“Why, Jaime, of course. We’ve been inseparable these many years.” Cersei lays a hand on Brienne’s armoured shoulder, pitches her voice low though Jaime can hear her with perfect clarity. “You must understand, Lady Brienne: whatever pretty dreams you concocted while my dear brother went north to protect his family, they were just that. Dreams of a lovestruck girl. He is mine, and I am his.”

It is the wrong thing to say, for he sees Brienne’s nostrils flare, and Jaime is rooted in place, remembering her face in the moonlight, the way she’d bound their hands even as tears had pooled in her eyes, the last comfort of a dying man. Before he can move, _no Brienne, no, it is you, only you, we swore it and I am sorry, I am sorry I am not a better man but I am yours_ , Brienne looks at Cersei with anger.

“Your brother’s trial is the same day as yours.” 

“No matter. They will simply have to hold mine first.”

“It is the same day,” Brienne repeats. 

“Yes.”

“You would— If he is to fight for you, and survives, he will be exhausted. Perhaps wounded. You would have him risk his own chances to…” Brienne looks towards him, the Brienne he knows, and gives him an _apologetic_ look. “No, I won’t allow it.”

“You cannot stop him.”

“That is where you are wrong, good-sister,” Brienne says. “I will champion for you.”

And with a stiff bow, she turns to leave. Cersei spins on her heel to face Jaime, prepared to flay him with her tongue, demand answers. He shakes his head, and follows Brienne from the room. 


	4. thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from [Death, be not proud](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44107/holy-sonnets-death-be-not-proud) and I love it so much I wish I had kept it for a full fic title. 
> 
> Some may notice this fic is not complete despite the exchange reveal, and I am aiming to remedy that as quickly as possible. Apologies, to my prompter and other readers.

He catches her in the corridor. Perhaps she’d meant him to, had not walked quickly enough, not turned at the first corner, but when he grabs her arm she still spins on her heel.

“Release me,” she hisses; his hand drops away instantly and she wishes it had not.

“Brienne—”

“No. Don’t—” The words choke her, and she checks there is no one to oversee the conversation before jerking her head towards a nearby room. Marches into it, though she has no idea what the room _is_ until they are inside. It’s a sort of small, public sitting area, strewn with cushions and chairs meant for leisurely pursuits; she stomps through it as she paces, all of it—these past months apart and their brief time together and the weight of his hand in hers that night—making her skin itch, making her long for a sword and a dummy and an hour on the training yards, especially when Jaime merely watches her silently. 

“If you’re determined to die,” she bursts out, her hand flexing as if it could wrap around her sword if she only allowed it, “let it at least be for your own actions.”

It’s not what she’d meant to say, but she’s glad she has. 

He is so still, so _quiet_ as he says, “I had no idea she intended me to champion her.”

“It’s not—” He’s telling the truth, she’s certain he is, but that’s not the _point_. “You would have, though. Better to die a hero, if only to her, than a coward fighting for his own life.”

“It’s a better idea than you in that arena,” he spits back, clearly knowing she is right. “What a waste that would be.”

“You think I will lose?”

“I think there is no reason to risk it, and you will not. I will fight for her.”

She laughs, a scoffing bark she cannot bite back. “Too late, the Queen has already been informed and arrangements made.”

It is a lie, one she will not apologise for. He believes it, regardless. 

“Brienne—”

“ _Ser_ Brienne, unless you have forgotten,” she says harshly. She hates this all, the tenuous control she has over roiling emotions, the quiet woundedness on his face, that this may well be the last time they speak and she cannot be soft and sympathetic, cannot comfort the man she loves as he goes to his death, cannot— “ _Why_ , Ser Jaime?”

“Why _what_ , Brienne?” he replies. “Why do I not want my wife to fight, quite possibly to the death, for my murderous sister? Why was I there tonight, when I could have let her face death alone as she deserves? Why—”

“Shut up!” she shouts, feeling absurdly like a child. “I cannot think when you prattle so.”

He extends his hand, palm up, gently, as if to soothe a spooked animal, and she hates that too, hates that whatever else has happened he still treats her with a tenderness she is unaccustomed to. “Ser Brienne….”

“No. No, you cannot— I have spent _two moons_ waiting for news of your death, Jaime. I cannot…” 

She can feel it cracking, her carefully built defenses turned to glass from the power of his love, and one small knock will shatter it apart, cut her feet to ribbons as she tries to walk away. She needs to _leave_ , needs to have this conversation—that Daenerys is untrusted by everyone, but she will not rig the trial and risk the ire of the North if it is Brienne that fights; that she cannot watch him throw away his life for Cersei instead of facing his own choices, that is not what honour is; that she cannot sit out this fight any more than he can; that she cannot _hope_ —she needs to have this conversation another day, with more defenses, without having to look at the crow’s feet around his eyes and the curve of his teeth when his mouth parts and how he loves her even now, all those little details suddenly in vivid relief and mere days from being stolen from her, she needs to have this conversation another day or not at all, needs to get _away_. 

And the worst of it is his face falls and he nods and he pulls away and he’s dying again and she can do nothing, not without falling apart and she _can’t_ , not here and now with Daenerys so odd and Jon resisting the throne and Sansa needing her, she wants to but she _can’t_ , and—

He nods, once, and his voice is flat as he says, “You know where I will be, if you wish to speak with me. I will not bother you any longer, Ser Brienne.” 

* * *

He doesn’t see her again, and it is hard not to think her craven for it; he wonders if she simply did not care for him as deeply as he did her, a familiar dilemma, but he can’t forget the way her voice had shaken, how her hands had moved, the firmness in her posture and the fear in her eyes, and thinks it more likely that she loved him too well. 

Still, he misses her. More than he could have imagined, more than he had allowed himself to feel in all their time apart, and he resents that she can shatter him so easily, make him feel every aching wound, every bit of longing for things to be different, every urge to fight against his doom. It _hurts_ , in a way he had allowed himself to forget, and the worst of it is that the hurt feels good, reminds him what it is to feel alive.

Tyrion notices the night before the trials are to begin, on one of his many visits, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Did your—”

“Tyrion, not here.” 

Jaime casts his eye towards Cersei, who is drinking wine and staring out a window onto King’s Landing with a snarl on her lips. There are celebrations in the streets for the new Queen, the smallfolk unaware or perhaps uncaring that Daenerys is… Jaime cannot name her mad, but there is a glint of it in her eyes, in the way Jon Snow had spent too many hours in a supply tent overlooking battle strategy to trust her implicitly, in her behaviour in Winterfell. He hopes, for their sake, she is a better leader than the last, though he will not live to see it.

Tyrion has no such concerns, or perhaps he merely hides them better. “You ought to take the jury, Jaime.”

“Who in all the seven kingdoms would not condemn me at the first chance?” Jaime scoffs, voice low. “Sansa Stark might have had mercy when she thought I was likely to die regardless, but as I left Winterfell in the dead of night and dishonoured her dear friend in the process, I doubt even that is likely. At least trial by combat is—”

“She’ll put you against the dragon, Jaime,” his brother spits. “Whatever foolish notion you have of a noble death, you forget we’ve both seen men burn.”

His stomach drops. “Brienne—”

“Against an Unsullied,” Tyrion assures him, “and she’s set tongues wagging with her choice to champion the deposed queen. There are rumours it is to ensure Cersei loses, for Lady Sansa’s sake.”

“She wouldn’t.”

Tyrion raises a wry eyebrow. “Agreed. The point remains, Daenerys would not risk losing the North and possibly the Stormlands with an impossible fight. Or perhaps she is concerned Ser Brienne would prevail and she would lose her final child. Regardless, she has no such worries about you, and I’d rather not watch you burn if you are determined to die.” He pauses for a moment, then drops his voice lower and leans in. “I am not certain you would be found guilty. Mislike is not the only factor, and I can be truly convincing. You have saved me, brother, more times than I care to count. Allow me this.” 

Jaime nods before he realises he is doing so, and there is a strange glowing ember in his gut, one that might keep him warm or die away, or burn him spectacularly before he has a chance to escape. It’s _hope_ , he realises, the most dangerous of things, and he resents that too, even as he banks it against the harsh truths of the world. 

“I doubt I can barter any such concessions for Cersei,” Tyrion warns.

“No matter. She would rather die fighting. If you could convince Ser Brienne—”

“I cannot. She will not tell anyone why she has chosen to be Cersei’s champion and will not be dissuaded. I understand that she and Sansa quarrelled quite strongly.” 

Stubborn woman. Once she’s set her mind to something, there really is no way to stop her, not if she believes it right. He would not change her for anything, but he wishes that he could, just this once. 

Tyrion lingers for a few minutes longer, asking him questions Jaime cannot see the purpose of before leaving, and as soon as he is gone Cersei turns her teeth to Jaime once more.

“I can’t imagine why the little Imp married the beast.”

Jaime sighs. When he’d returned from his conversation with Brienne, shaken and uncertain what any of it meant, Cersei had asked him what possible reason _that beast_ had to call her good-sister, how pathetic she must be to claim a connection; he’d snapped that there was no delusion, regretting the words even as he’d said them for what they’d exposed. Cersei had laughed, concluding that the giant must have married the dwarf, and now she needled him whenever she could, trying to learn the hows and whys, and Jaime had let her, because it did not matter, because it was safer than her knowing the truth—even under lock and key, he cannot trust that Cersei would not find a way to hurt Brienne for taking him. But that little ember is glowing white hot and his mood is already foul, and so he says the only thing that comes to mind.

“She’s _my_ wife, Cersei, not Tyrion’s.”

He expects jealousy. He expects her to throw the goblet and yell and strike at him, attempt to kiss him in an angry passion. Instead Cersei laughs.

“How _brilliant_ ,” she says. “Stupid as you may be, using her devotion against her might be your last truly inspired action. If you were half the tactician on the battlefield…”

It would have hurt, once, sharp, quick slices that stung long before they bled. But he thinks of Brienne, of their bed in Winterfell, of late nights and early mornings and the heat of her breath against his ear when she leaned in close. Thinks of his wife preparing for battle, like a hero from myth and yet so achingly mortal, and the moment she had accepted knighthood by his hand. Cersei will not—cannot, perhaps—understand, and Jaime does not wish to share. Whatever else may come, memories at least cannot be taken from him. 

* * *

His trial is shortly after dawn. He is up before the sun to bathe and dress, a ragged bit of robe tied to his right arm and hidden beneath his shirt like a favour. Wonders whether he can beg Daenerys not to place his head on display—it is a grisly tradition, and he can all too easily imagine Brienne riding past it day after day as she moves from the northern encampment to the castle as she serves the Starks. 

Cersei is awake when he leaves his chambers, or perhaps she has not slept. She is still certain they will prevail, the Lannister pride impervious to any bit of sense.

“They cannot take your other hand,” she decrees. “I suppose if you are found guilty you can push for exile. It will be harder to raise troops from Essos, but I am not queen without reason—within the year the smallfolk will be begging for my return, and we will grant it to them.” She lays a hand on her stomach. “You and I and our child, Jaime.”

He sighs. “If I am found guilty, I will be executed. If I am found innocent, I will be found dead within a week of some convenient mishap. There is no Essos, Cersei.”

There is no child, to his relief, but he cannot say so. He thinks perhaps she believes it, whatever the maester had said when Daenerys had ordered her examined. 

He makes his way to the door, where an Unsullied soldier is waiting to escort him to one of the halls for his trial. Not the throne room, thanks the gods; the idea of watching that thrice-damned throne as his days-at-most future is debated churns his stomach. 

There are five jurors, to his surprise—he’d expected Daenerys to precede alone, or perhaps with Jon Snow as a concession to the North that meant nothing. But with Daenerys and Jon is Sansa Stark, upright and regal; Samwell Tarly, who has every right to loathe him; and Edmure Tully. Marvelous. Jaime is certain Daenerys could have created a jury that would hate him more, but it would be a difficult thing. 

He keeps his eyes forward, determined not to search the room for Brienne—she is not here, that much had been clear as he’d entered, and to do anything but face the jury with quiet stalwartness is a weakness he cannot afford. He cannot imagine that many know of the marriage, or would believe it if they did, but the association will taint her all the same. (Somehow he still _expects_ her to arrive, to stand at his defense as she had in Winterfell regardless of the personal cost, and prays she does not. Perhaps she will visit him before his death, a kinder image to bring with him to the executioner’s block than their last meeting.)

He does not pay enough attention to Tyrion. The window behind the long table where the jury sits is stained glass, and the rising sun casts coloured light across the room; he watches it and wonders how long it has been since he’d last noticed the mundane beauties. ( _Winterfell_ , obviously, and before that? Glimpsed moments for years.) It is a melancholy thought, a waste of a life, and he is so caught in it, so far from this small hall if only in his mind, that he does not notice when the mood in the room begins to shift. 

Even later, when Tyrion explains all the clever arguments and witnesses and reasons, he cannot quite comprehend nor remember. How Sansa Stark had argued in his defense. How Samwell Tarly had been suggested by Tyrion, Daenerys unwilling or unable to remember that his family’s death had been by _her_ dragons. How Edmure Tully had been only too happy to argue that Jaime had—despite the Crown’s wishes and with Edmure’s help—managed to end the Siege of Riverrun without a loss of life. How witnesses had come forth, painting a picture of Robert’s Rebellion that cast his broken vows as… Tyrion comes closer to the truth than Jaime cares to examine, and he wonders how long ago his brother had cobbled together enough to guess the rest. There is an impassioned speech about laws and duty and the spirit of justice that Jaime is certain is a pile of aurochs shit, even as he half-listens. He doesn’t understand any of it, and he doesn’t understand how by the end he has merely been stripped of the title of Lord of Casterly Rock and nothing else. 

“Do not mistake this for liking you, Ser Jaime,” Arya Stark says, as he exits the room; he hadn’t seen her arrive, though he manages to hide his surprise.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replies dryly. “I presume you’re here to stick me with a dagger, neat and clean.”

Arya snorts. “And satisfy Queen Daenerys? Absolutely not. Besides, if I had wanted to murder a Lannister, you were below both your siblings. See you don’t rise higher.”

He is very tempted to ask _why_ , though he’s not certain any response this strange near-child would give would truly answer his questions, but he sees Brienne at the end of the corridor—waiting, no doubt, for Sansa—and he hastily moves in her direction. There are a few hours yet until Cersei’s trial, perhaps he could—

He knows the moment she sees him, because her posture stiffens and she nearly walks away. But she is Brienne, and so she comes towards them. 

“Arya, Ser Jaime,” she greets them with an incline of her head. “I was not expecting you to be done so soon. I am—” she stops herself, adjusts, “I was sorry to hear the loss of your title.”

Jaime shrugs. “Better my title than my head. Tyrion has always been better suited to the Rock.”

She gives a small, forced smile, her chin trembling, and he knows she would rather be anywhere else. 

“Lady Sansa should be out in just a moment,” Jaime says, polite, conciliatory, desperately curious how she knows the results of the trial. “If I may speak to you for just a moment, Ser….” 

He trails off, waits for some hint of encouragement from her, but she still holds herself tightly.

“I’m afraid I must prepare for this afternoon, Ser Jaime. Forgive me.” She nods, stiff, and turns to Arya. “Please, tell your sister I have returned to camp. Podrick is to take my guard duties this afternoon.”

“Brienne—” Jaime says, but she is already walking away.


	5. let not thy divining heart forethink me any ill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is, again, from _Sweetest love, I do not go_

There is a single room on the side of the Dragonpit that is still mostly sound—there is a small hole in the roof where stone has fallen away and if there had ever been glass in the high-set windows it is long gone, but it provides a secure enough place to dress for the trial. Brienne is more focused on Sansa than creature comforts regardless; the young woman has been pacing the packed-dirt floor for several minutes, unsettled. 

“This was the sleeping quarters for the dragonkeepers,” Sansa finally says, running a finger over Brienne’s breastplate where it lays on a table that had not rotted away. “I’d say before they were all gone, but…” 

Brienne smiles, a tiny thing she barely believes. “I’m not facing a dragon, my lady.”

Sansa turns from the table to look at her, her brow furrowed. 

“I still mislike it. There is…” Sansa’s lips press tight, all the things they cannot say here in King’s Landing amongst Daenerys’s people filling the room. 

“I am aware. But I believe that of all the options, this is the only one that is viable.”

“And that is it Ser Jaime’s… _sister_ in mere coincidence?”

Brienne sighs, picking up the gambeson that Sansa had spent the previous evening embroidering along sleeves and hem, stars and moons and wolves and lions rampant. She does not ask and Sansa does not offer her reasons for the inclusion, perhaps for the same reasons they do not discuss Jaime’s trial and all that was said there, but the lions are stitched with the same care as the rest and Brienne runs a thumb along one before slipping it on. Her eyes are still on her laces when she says, “I cannot deny that it is a consideration. I would not save her for her sake, and in truth I do not believe being found innocent would be enough to save her regardless, but…” 

“But you must try. For love of him.”

Even these simple words are enough to make her heart quicken, twist in her chest and she cannot—

“It is not so…” Brienne sighs again; she has no love for Cersei, but cruelty has done no one good these past years. “Of course I… I do not wish him pain. But I also believe, truly, that if there is to be justness under this new reign, then we must begin with it. Queen Daenerys is— Revenge is not what I once believed it to be, and I cannot allow it to go unopposed. Regardless of my oaths to you, Lady Sansa.”

It feels a hollow justification, however true it may be, but it is all she has.

“No, I cannot imagine you would. Nor can I say that you are entirely wrong. But I would ask…” Sansa trails off, and Brienne looks up. Sansa is watching her, concern writ across her face. “I would ask that you yield, rather than fight to the death. I do not wish to be without you, Ser, but even more I do not wish the Seven Kingdoms to be.”

It hurts, and shaking her head, Brienne says, “I do not court death.”

“Not purposefully.” _Unlike Ser Jaime_ goes unsaid. “But I am concerned.”

“I will yield, if I must.”

Sansa looks at her, and for all the soft affection there is a shrewdness in her eyes. “Are you certain you will _know_ when you must? Brienne, you fight against all likelihoods for what you believe is right. It is one of your most admirable qualities. I want you to promise me that you will yield if the time comes.”

“I cannot.”

It is not that she does not wish to, it is that fights can happen so quickly, a single movement altering the outcome, and she will not lie to Sansa. It seems to be the answer Sansa expects though, for she nods. 

“Then I cannot watch.”

“I understand.”

The silence cannot last for as long as it feels, but it is still too long.

“I will send Podrick in, to help you dress,” Sansa says, gathering her skirt in tight fists as she moves towards the door, then stopping before Brienne. “And I will see you when the trial is done.”

She bows slightly. “Of course, my lady.”

It is not a promise, but it is the closest she can give. 

* * *

Cersei does not greet the outcome of his trial with more than vague disinterest—she wished him innocent for her own ends, and while the loss of title is inconvenient he is free in the ways that matter to her and that is enough. Now it is on _that beast_ to play her role and the world will continue as it should. Jaime picks at the luncheon before them and does his best to ignore her. It does not work; whatever skill had allowed him to turn a blind eye to the worst of her cruelty, and worse still had allowed him to play along because she was his first duty always and it pleased her, has rusted like a poorly cared for blade. Soon enough there is a knock on the door—Tyrion has come to walk with them to the trial, and when Jaime looks to him, hoping for news of Brienne, his brother merely shakes his head and they walk across the city in silence. 

The Dragonpit has been lined with seats for spectators, and Jaime resists the urge to ask Tyrion whether Daenerys had set the trial here in case her dragon was needed after all. It doesn’t matter. They file onto a raised pavilion on the opposite side of the arena from the Queen, a public spectacle that will align Jaime with his sister in the opinion of the smallfolk regardless of the outcome of his trial. Why Tyrion has joined them instead of taking his position as Hand on the other side is less certain. It does not matter—the pavilion is three Lannisters and many guards, as if they expect an escape attempt, as if Jaime would be anywhere but here, willing Brienne to change her mind at the last. 

She does not. Stubborn creature. One moment he is wishing she will not appear and the next she has. She is wearing her blue armour and a borrowed helm, but there is no mistaking her walk, confident but not swaggering, unapologetic as it commands space. It is a walk of well-honed strength, and she’d moved the same in their chambers; he knows there is a litheness to her movements when she needs it, but she gives no hint of it as she enters, a hidden advantage. She is _magnificent_. Magnificent and a fool. 

“She’s certainly _tall_ ,” Cersei says snidely. “Tell me, brother, did she question why you never consummated the marriage?”

Tyrion snorts, and Jaime glares at him.

“Be civil, sister,” Tyrion says, clearly still amused. “That is the future Lady of Casterly Rock. Or will be, if Jaime plays nicely for a few years.”

“Casterly is yours, brother,” Jaime replies, playing at insouciant; it is better than to reveal how deeply he wishes for this life that won’t be his. “Consort to the Evenstar serves me much better, as does the island it comes with. Blue waters and green shores as far as the eye can see.”

“And boredom within a fortnight,” Cersei snorts. “Come on, brother, you cannot expect me to be jealous over _that_.”

She gestures to the arena, where Brienne is greeting Daenerys and Jon. Sansa is not here, Jaime realises, nor Podrick or Arya. It fills him with a creeping sort of dread; if they are not here it is because she does not want them to be, and if she does not… Stubborn, intractable woman. She has no business risking her life, not for Cersei, not for him.

Tyrion has procured a goblet of wine from somewhere, and lifts it towards Cersei.

“May you eventually realise that some battles you have already lost,” he toasts, then takes a deep gulp.

Jaime pays their bickering no mind, watching Brienne greet her opponent and the opening words spoken with great flourish. Daenerys lists Cersei’s crimes, identifies her champion and the Crown’s, and the fight begins.

Brienne is good, he knows she’s good, but so is the Unsullied man, and the styles are different enough that Jaime cannot easily tell who has the lead at any given moment—Brienne has strength, but the advantage of her reach is reduced by the spear the man wields with dextrous speed. The man’s speed means little though if he cannot land strong hits, and even as Jaime thinks it, the sound of metal on metal clangs. _Fuck._ It is shifting, shifting, changing in any moment. 

There is a low rail across the pavilion and Jaime holds onto it as he leans forward, hand clenching around the wood painfully. They are faster now, Brienne is blocking, blocking, waiting to press an advantage but it’s no good, not in this heat, not with an Unsullied, she needs to move _now_ and then she does, she knows how to fight and she’s quicker now, strong, but she’s pulling her hits and he can’t—

“It seems size is not the advantage you imagined.”

“Be quiet,” Jaime snaps, his eyes still trained on Brienne, trying to figure out why—she’s got the man at swordpoint and it would be the work of a moment to slice his neck, but she hesitates and the Unsullied man ducks, weaves, strikes back with a force Jaime can nearly _feel_ in his own body, what is she—fuck, she’s trying to get him to yield, not die.

“Stubborn aurochs,” he mutters, leaning forward even more, his knuckles white where he grips the rail. 

He doesn’t know how long it goes on, minutes can seem like hours in a fight and he’s _there_ , he’s there with every strike, his right arm raising to block when she should, she’s magnificent like this, her screams and grunts echoing in the arena as she moves, she’s got the man on the ground and maybe this is it, her sword is at his throat again and she must be exhausted, but she still waits for the yield and he won’t, and there’s a swiped leg she dodges too late—

Her helm goes flying as her body crashes to the ground, and someone shouts— _he_ shouts, a hoarse, instinctual sound. _Yield, yield, yield you great stubborn, magnificent_ —

“Jaime, this is absurd,” Cersei says, seemingly unaffected. “You are a Lannister. Behave as one.”

“Not now.”

_Not now, not now,_ he’s watching Brienne and she’s on the ground and winded, she’d landed so hard, and he wants her to yield, please Father let her yield, and—

“Jaime!” shouts Cersei, and his eyes flick towards her, just for a moment, and she looks _bored_. “Really, if you’re to be like this you ought to have fought yourself rather than led a cow to slaughter.” and Jaime wonders whether he can kill her himself, wrap that golden hand around her neck and end it before—

The crowd _roars_ and he turns back to the fight. The Unsullied stands over her, spear at her throat, and Brienne is reaching for a sword that is out of her reach and _yield, yield, just yield_ , he pleads, anything, he doesn’t care, just yield, because he may not be close enough to _see_ but he can imagine the press of steel against skin, the bright red of blossoming blood, and then he sees it, the way her shoulders sag and her hands stops grasping and before he can even think he is over the rail and moving towards her and she’s yielded and on her feet by the time he gets there, sheathing her sword, and—

“I’m sorry, Jaime, I—”

—he kisses her, hand in her hair and the taste of dirt and sweat and blood, and he should stop but she’s kissing him back and none of the rest of it matters, and when he pulls away he forgets everything but her dear, dear face swimming before him, slightly blurred by tears, a tiny smile and then it falls and,

“Jaime, I’m sorry, I couldn’t—”

“No,” he says. “Don’t… don’t.”

She gives a choked laugh and perhaps she is tearful too but they are good tears, because the dead don’t cry and he kisses her again and when he pulls away he shakes his head.

“Might be hard to hide the truth now,” she says, a little unsteadily, and it might have stung but there is such honesty in her face he loves her, ridiculously so. 

He reaches for her hand, raising it to his lips, and he means it to be a courtly brush against her bloodied knuckles, but he turns her hand instead, presses a kiss against the palm, closes his eyes. He doesn’t know—he doesn’t know anything but the feel of her skin against his and it is enough, just for a moment it is enough, and when Daenerys speaks Brienne turns her hand so they are palm against palm and squeezes, and he can feel the way her hand still shakes as she does. 

Cersei’s sentence is to be pronounced at dinner, as if there is any doubt of the outcome, and Jaime knows it will hurt eventually, but for now it hardly seems real. Certainly less real than Brienne’s hand in his, her face still red from the fight and her hair damp with sweat. 

* * *

She hurts, but it’s a distant sort of awareness of pain rather than the pain itself, her head still ringing from that final fall, the euphoria of the fight not yet abated into the exhaustion of afterwards. Even the sickening guilt of the yield seems small and distant in comparison, though she could not have done anything else. 

Daenerys is speaking, or is finished speaking, she’s not entirely certain, very little reaches her, then Jaime is pulling her from the arena, past spectators, his hand still in hers, and as soon as they get outside he’s pushing her against the wall and kissing her again and _this_ makes sense, this has always made sense, and he feels so good she digs her fingertips against his arse and throws her head back, so he can scrape his teeth against her throat and press his leg between hers, and he’s not close enough, she can’t feel him with the armour and—

“There’s a room,” she gasps. “Where I prepared. For—” fuck, she can’t remember and it doesn’t matter because he‘s pulled away and _nonono that’s not what she wants_ but he gives a grin and _right_ the room, she grabs his hand and drags him around the corner, through the door, thankful that no one is waiting to help her undress.

The fumble at her armour, her hands are shaking from the fight and they’re working at cross-purposes and _gods_ she just wants his touch, it’s awkward and takes too long, but that’s good, her head has stopped swimming but she wants him, wants this, this urgent give and take and her armour is off, off, it clanks as it hits the ground and then he’s pulling on her clothes beneath, gambeson and shirt yanked up and over her head and he hisses.

“Fuck, Brienne, you’re—”

She looks down, the bright red of fresh bruises covering her—her back must be worse, she can still feel the way she’d landed, and he spins her around as if he’d had the same thought and his hand on her arm tightens as he takes it in.

“Foolish woman,” he growls. “What were you thinking?”

And she knows what she was thinking, and she doesn’t _want_ to think right now, not about duty and not about yielding and not about the spear at her throat and the clawing urge to live, so she turns enough to bite at his mouth, groan against it, the split of her lip bleeding anew, her fingers pulling at his jerkin. 

When his jerkin is gone, flung without regard, and her fingers are seeking the laces of his shirt, he spins her around again, chest to back, a growl deep in his throat as he wraps his right arm around her, his left unlacing her trousers and pushing them down her thighs, his fingers slipping against her cunt, and then he presses his tongue against her shoulder, hard, and there is a spike of pain, not as deep as it will be when the bruise settles, sharp and fresh, and she grunts. It feels good, the bright lick of pain as he presses every bruise, the heavy pleasure of his fingers coiling, coiling somewhere beneath her pubic bone, and her legs are shaking and—

“Table,” she grits out, and they stumble towards it together, his fingers, his tongue still moving, and the sensation is building, wet sounds and musky scent fill the air as he fucks her just like this, just his fingers and his murmured praises, _fuck fuck Brienne you were so good_ , she can’t—

She braces herself against the wood, pushes back, grinds against his still covered cock and he bites her shoulder, slides two fingers knuckle deep and _fuck_ it feels like, like, she squirms and her toes curl and she can’t, it’s like, his fingers twist, press, there’s a, she whines because it’s so much, all knotted up inside her cunt and it would feel so good to let go but she _can’t_ , she can’t, she can’t, she can’t let go, it’s already too deep, too raw, and if she does— His fingers twist again as he bites the juncture of her neck and she _forgets_ , she forgets to keep control and it happens all at once, a wailing shriek and flashes of colour as she clenches her eyes tight, a peak so primal that she sags against the table when it passes, uncertain her legs will bear her. 

Jaime is still holding her though, his fingers still inside though he has ceased his movements. She might come apart if he hadn’t, but when he withdraws them entirely it is no better and she moans in protest. 

He laughs, a short huff as he presses his face against her shoulder, his beard rough now that she has… She turns, sinks onto the table that creaks beneath her, his arms wrapping around her. It feels… right. Safe. Dangerous for it. 

“Fuck,” she exhales, laying her forehead against his shoulder and breathing for a long moment, eyes closed. She’s _tired_ , and perhaps that is to be expected but it feels….

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, not moving from his embrace.

“Don’t be, that was…” 

The admiration in his voice is undeniable, but undeserved. She raises her head, looks at him. 

“I meant about— Cersei, and the trial. I…”

“ _Don’t be_ ,” he repeats, his thumb stroking her neck at just the point she can feel the ghost of the speartip. “You were magnificent.”

Magnificent, but not enough. 


	6. then shall my ghost come to thy bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Donne's [The Apparition](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44093/the-apparition-56d2230b76669). No deeper meaning to be found here.

She is warm in his arms, sweat-slick and trembling, and it is so easy not to move, to feel her pulse beneath the pad of his thumb and let nothing else intrude. It is broken by the low chatter of spectators leaving the trial, the sound drifting into the room and startling Brienne; she pushes him away, nearly leaping from the table in her haste to tug her breeches back up, slide her shirt over her head and resecure the laces, her face an unreadable mask.

“You will need to stay in the camp,” she says, turning her back to him to retrieve her gambeson. “As a precaution.”

The idea that staying with Northern soldiers is safer would be hilarious, if he was not certain it is true. Still, the mere idea lies bitter on his tongue. 

“But the Keep has real beds, Brienne,” he grumbles, more because it feels like it is what he should do then any desire to. “Large, comfortable ones with feather pillows and clean linens whenever you ask. Surely you’re precaution enough.”

She grunts. “And I guard Lady Sansa, so you can stay in the camp and not cause trouble until we can ensure no mishap is headed your way.”

Jaime is quite certain telling Brienne she can ensure no such thing, and ought not to for him, would not end well, so he folds his arms nonchalantly and mock-gasps. “You cannot think our wise and gracious ruler would do such a thing? That’s nearly treasonous, Ser Brienne.”

“Be quiet!” she snaps. “I’d rather not see your head on a pike. It wouldn’t be half so pretty once eaten by crows.”

“I think you’d miss more than my prettiness,” he teases.

She spins, and even in the pale light of late afternoon through the high-set windows he can see the shine in her eyes. “Must everything be a joke to you, Jaime?”

He knows he has gone too far, but he shrugs. “I’m alive. You’re alive. Last I checked we were wed, which means the things we’ve just done are to be expected. Why should I not laugh?” 

“Perhaps because—” she stops, draws herself upright, blinks away the tears in her eyes. “Your sister is to die. The Queen dislikes you, however Lady Sansa and your brother have forced her hand. Bran has informed me, more than once, that whatever it was that happened that night, it did not—”

“ _Whatever happened?_ ” Jaime asks, incredulous. Angry. 

“It did not follow the customs of the Old Gods, ser. None would proclaim it binding.”

He wants to shake her, but hastily unknots his shirt instead, pulls down the right sleeve to show the tattered strip of robe he had tied there that morning. “What happened is that we were _married_ , Brienne. Forget the gods. Old, new, drowned, none of them matter so long as you meant your vows.”

“I—”

“Don’t tell me the maid of Tarth turned faithless?” he taunts. “Or perhaps it was simply a bit of sympathy, pity for a dead man, and now you regret it.”

Her jaw firms. “I don’t.”

“Good! Nor do I.”

Her eyes are focused on the fabric on his arm and there is too much distance between them, but he does not know how to cross it, worries that a hand in supplication will be rebuked, that an angered passion will frighten her off or turn her cold, and so he stays still and hopes she will come to him. 

“I did,” she says instead, and her voice cracks. “I did believe you dead. I do not know what to do, now that you are alive. Not when….”

“You could kiss me,” he says, giving her his most roguish smile, the one that could win over even— his smile falters, and he flashes his teeth instead. “It may not bring clarity, but I have been told it is quite pleasant.”

She gives a choked, wet laugh, her hands flailing before her. Clenches them tight, regains control. “You will stay in the camp. My tent. I— I will take a cot with Lady Sansa, it is believable enough.”

There is a sinking sensation in his gut. “Why?”

“Not—not for long,” she says hastily, “but I am sure you will… wish for solitude, this evening. A few days, perhaps.”

“Long enough to forget you wed a sister-fucking coward?” he sneers, and sees her bristle, brace herself.

“Long enough for you to forget that I yielded, ser.”

And _oh_ , oh of course, she… She may be a Lannister in name, but she is too good to ever _be_ one, or perhaps that has always been his excuse: Lannisters are lions, they need nothing more than claws and teeth. But he is not a Lannister any longer, not the way he’d once been, and his teeth and claws are blunted from too much use. 

“Do not stay away on my account,” he says. And then, because it is not enough, “I would… I would have you beside me, if you think you can bear it. I am afraid I have had little good sleep, these past weeks.”

The truth is there are whole days he only recalls in glimpses, broken only by restless nights, and now she is here and… He does not wish to continue so, however easy it would be. She demands _more_ of him than that while asking nothing, and when she nods agreement, a tiny bow of her head and no smile at all, it feels a victory.

* * *

It is to be the executioner’s block for Cersei, as Jaime had known it would be. Better than dragon fire, and deserved he knows, but as Brienne ducks her head slightly to enter her tent later that night, after the Queen’s feast, and he sees the sombre expression on her face…

“Out with it then,” he says.

To her credit, Brienne does not flinch away or try to make the truth pleasant. “Queen Daenerys is awaiting the arrival of several more lords she expects to bend the knee. She has set Lady Cersei’s execution for a sennight hence.”

To make the biggest spectacle of it, Jaime knows, and wonders if it was on Tyrion’s advice—the new Queen has shown far more interest in brute strength than political cunning, but it is precisely the sort of action his brother would take. He sinks on to the narrow cot, runs his hand down his face as if to wipe away whatever lingering shock and grief can be found there. Brienne sits beside him, still and silent, but there is a comfort in her steady presence, in the solidity of her wide shoulders and the press of her legs against his. 

He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to do, how to feel. Cersei is to die. Cersei deserves to die. He should die with her, but he won’t. He doesn’t _want_ to. How can something he wants come at the price of his sister’s head? How can he live with himself for it, and yet how can he _not_ when the alternative is so much worse?

After some time, only minutes perhaps or an hour, Brienne begins to rise from the cot and he reaches out blindly to catch her, his hand on her forearm.

“I only meant to get you a drink,” she says, so softly, but sinks back onto the bed. 

His mouth opens, _stay with me_ he means to say, but the words remain stubbornly resistant. Her hand comes to clasp over his, a simple gesture he has not felt in moons, and he turns his hand to hold her tighter as the long silence stretches before them. 

Eventually it is too much—too many questions and too much grief and too raw just to sit, and he stands abruptly.

“I need to piss,” he says, ignoring the chamber pot in the corner in favour of the cool night air outside. They are near the edge of the army’s camp—a strange place for Sansa to stay, and he can see the warm glow of candlelight coming from her tent next to Brienne’s, but he is sure there is some reason or game for the choice he does not wish to comprehend. 

He walks, a living ghost moving between tents, avoiding the bright fires and celebrations of the soldiers in search of…. something. Some reason, some explanation that will make this easier. He doesn’t find it. Perhaps it does not exist. 

The tent is dark when he returns, and he wonders if she thought him gone forever, if she would grieve for him or be glad for his absence, for the simpleness of _I wed a man and now he is dead_ , but as he quietly sheds his jerkin and boots she moves in her sleep, shifting in the too-small cot to make room for him as well, and some aching corner of his heart cracks at the simple action. 

Her body is warm as he slides into bed, and the steady rise and fall of her breathing quiets his mind long enough he can drift off to sleep.

* * *

By the morning after the trials, the news of their marriage has become common knowledge. Brienne steps from the tent with the intention of seeking Sansa, only to be accosted by false congratulations and calls of Lady Lannister, though the title is not hers now that Jaime has lost the Rock. She doesn’t respond, keeps her chin up as she strides to Sansa’s tent; when she is inside, Sansa looks at her apologetically.

“I said you had wed in the Godswood of Winterfell,” she says. “It seemed wiser than to let the rumours grow unchecked, regardless of the truth.”

The truth. Brienne owes her this, owes them all—no secrecy, no prevarication. “We did.”

Sansa does not seem surprised, only nods. “Bran had… It did not need to be binding.”

“I know.”

“And you are happy?”

What a strange word. “I do not regret the choice. That is the best I can hope for now, I suspect.”

“May I ask why?” 

Sansa’s voice is so gentle it makes Brienne’s heart stutter, stumble. 

“I… I hardly know myself,” she confesses. Perhaps has wanted to confess for some time, as if it will make sense when put into words. “It felt— I knew he would leave and I knew what that meant, or thought I did. But to have… It seemed romantic, I suppose. If it were to be a tragedy, it would be a tragedy from song. And it made it… real, at the same time. To know that…” she flexes her hand, the one that had held his that night, _I am his and he is mine_. “I wished to keep it, even if I could not keep him.”

Sansa seems to think for a long moment. “I never took you for one to dream of songs, though there are few more worthy.”

“I don’t want to be the maiden, but... ” Brienne feels a blush heat her cheeks. “It’s ridiculous, I know that.”

“Nonsense. We need those dreams _more_ , not less, in a world of war and grief. If he brings you joy…”

“I love him. And that may be foolish, but I cannot change it.”

“Yes, well, he clearly…” Sansa smiles. “If there’s to be a song of this, I like to imagine it is of the man who so loved his lady knight he leapt into the arena before she had yielded.”

The blush burns now. “I had not...” _realised_ , she means to say, the fight was little more than a blur in her mind, but of course he must have, he’d been there so quickly, his mouth on hers.

“It is all people spoke of, after you had left last night. The ladies have deemed it terribly romantic, and the men jape about— well, nevermind what they jape about.”

Brienne has spent enough time in army camps to imagine, but she is equally certain it has been said of them all along. 

“Is the Queen very angry?”

“Oh, furious.” Sansa says with a wave of her hand. “Every time she thinks she is to have her revenge it is thwarted, and Ser Jaime remains completely oblivious to it.”

Brienne has never had a head for politics, prefers the honesty of steel and strength, but even she knows that is not a good thing. “Will…”

“Leave it with me,” Sansa says, firmly. “The Queen is to have a harsh lesson on governing the Seven Kingdoms. It is so fortunate for her that my brother is to rule by her side. He understands.”

“Thank you, my lady.” There is relief, a slight loosening in her chest, that lasts only until Sansa sighs.

“I presume you will leave my service now?”

Brienne jerks, the sudden action reminding her of her injuries from the day before. “I do not— I would—”

Sansa crosses the room, takes one of Brienne’s hands in hers. “You are always welcome in Winterfell. I would even welcome Ser Jaime, for love of you. I swear I am not trying to… encourage you to leave. But surely you will wish to see your father, especially when we are so near to Tarth, and once you are home you may wish to stay. I could not begrudge you that.”

Brienne is not certain Tarth is home, not any longer, but it is still her duty. Her duty to wed and provide an heir and lead, when the time comes, and…

“I must write to my father,” she says, stomach sinking. “Before he learns of this all from another source.”

“Of course,” Sansa says. “We will seek a raven after we break our fast.”

Brienne wonders if it is unfair to feel as if it is an execution of her own. 


	7. O how feeble is man's power, that if good fortune fall, cannot add another hour, nor a lost hour recall!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another _Sweetest love I do not go_ chapter title, and a final chapter count. It's only over a month late.

Brienne does not make it back to the tent until mid-afternoon, and she is somehow surprised to find Jaime there—she’d never known him to be idle in Winterfell, though of course there is nothing for him to _do_ under the circumstances, and surely if there was ever reason to do nothing at all this would be it. He’s lounging on the bed though, hands folded across his chest and staring at the ceiling.

“Jaime.”

He sits up, blinks twice.

“You’re back early.”

“It is well past midday.”

His brow furrows. “Is it?”

“Have you eaten?”

He runs a hand across his face. “Porridge, this morn. It came with…” he gestures towards a small table, where a slip of paper lays. “Read it.”

It’s a message from Cersei, demanding he visit—it is politer than that, _dear brother I would ask of you_ , but its meaning is clear. It takes longer than Brienne expects for the jibe about her loss to come, _you always trusted that creature more than you ought to, if you had not perhaps you would still have your hand_ , but it still stings. She knows it is merely the woman’s anger, but it is easy to believe.

“I’m not going,” he says. “I ought to, I know, but…”

Brienne neatly folds the note, slides her fingers along the crease. She has never been good at comfort, giving nor receiving, and all the words that spring to mind— _you owe her nothing_ though she does not believe it, or _are you certain you can live with yourself if you do not?_ —are of no use. 

“She will continue to send letters,” she says instead, because if there is one thing she is certain of it is that Cersei Lannister will not take this complacently.

He sneers, the face she knows so well transformed into a derisive rictus. “And I will continue to be a coward. Tell me, do you regret this marriage yet, now that you know who I am?”

She would have expected the goading to hurt more, but there’s a wildness in his eyes that is more wounded animal than cruelty and she finds herself simply _tired_. He is angry, and hurt, and she is a reminder of it all; that he is mourning and sharp-edged is no surprise, but she cannot give him the fight he seeks. 

“I’ll leave you to your grief,” she says quietly. 

He sighs, a hoarse, tense sound rather than relief. Chuckles bitterly. “I deserved that.”

“You did.”

“Brienne, I…” He steps closer, not enough to be close; she shies away all the same. “I should not have... I have done naught today but wonder how I could have done differently. How I might have spared her, or stopped her. How I might have kept you from it. A better man would have.”

A better man would know that he could do no such thing. Most would refuse to believe women capable of choices at all.

“Perhaps,” is all she says.

He huffs, harsh and bitter. “I’m no fit company today, it seems. You’d best be off, I’m sure you have duties to attend to.”

She does not, but the spark in his eyes is already fading once more and she needs… to be away, to find her composure, to take in the scents of the army camp and remember why they are here. She barely takes the time to nod as she mounts her retreat.

* * *

If there is one thing that Jaime is certain of, it is that he will not subject Brienne to Cersei’s games and his grief, the dark mood that claws and scrapes at him even though he knows there is naught more he might have done and lived with himself. She's done the impossible time and time again, done it and come out stronger, but he loves her too much to ask this. 

It doesn’t go away though. No matter how he exhausts himself, how he rises early and sleeps late in the hopes it will not linger in the corners of his mind. No matter how often he discards Cersei’s letters, steadily angrier and more frequent—when calling him a coward does not work (for he is, that he knows), she pleads with him. When her pleas go unanswered, she insults those he loves. When insults do not move him, she resorts to veiled threats that will escape the understanding of all but him—he tells himself that it is his own guilt making him read such things, but there is too much history to believe it. He burns those, as if ink on paper is enough to give weight to her words. And all the while he remembers that she is to die, Cersei is to die and he is not, and he still does not understand why.

He sees Brienne everywhere, though she avoids him with that stalwart expression that had annoyed him so once. Sees her across the camp, and in the whispered words of soldiers. Sees her in the meals sent to the tent when he does not join the masses to dine. He sees her everywhere, but she is little more than a spectre, glimpsed from the corner of his eye and in the lingering warmth of her when he wakes to an empty bed. Some mornings he chases her, finds her shrouded in the mist, and for a brief stolen moment they spar, no words spoken between them. 

(Sometimes he thinks of another life, when he might have lain beside his wife and teased her awake with soft kisses against her jaw, when he might have buried his head against her shoulder when the dreams were bad and not needed to say anything at all. But he loves her too much to ask for such a thing. He can spare her this, at least.) 

* * *

She means to give him space, and time, away from her, away from the reminder that it might have been different. It does not work, at least not for her. The strange absence of the first morning is rarely repeated, but in its place there is a frantic sort of perpetual motion—they spar, early in the morn when fog wraps its tendrils between the tents. He paces the camp, seeking distraction; she sees him at a distance at times, doing any tasks requested of him. She returns to the tent one night to discover he has moved its contents around entirely, so that it is more comfortable for two; when they both slide into the bed that night she brushes against him, unintentionally, and feels his body go stiff. She yawns and turns onto her side, and pretends the space between them is merely in pursuit of sleep. 

The truth is, it is easier to have faced death than to find the words to make this well. To forget that he is alone and grieving, for the woman he believed his sister to be and the life he’d lived and the truths he thought irrefutable, and she is naught but a reminder of it all. She is grateful the bruises from the fight are easily hidden beneath her clothes—she dresses behind a screen or in the dark, so he does not see the mottled colours shifting and fading into a putrid shade of yellow.

It feels as if this might stretch on forever, the life they might have once had always in sight and never in reach, but of course it cannot. The night before Cersei’s execution, Brienne returns to the tent to find Sansa and Jaime both. 

“The Queen has summoned us to the Red Keep for the night,” Sansa says, and her expression darkens. “So you are nearby in the morning, no doubt.”

“I don’t—”

“I am made to understand it is not a request. Jon assures me that it will be safe—we have been assigned quarters near both Lord Tyrion and himself, and our guards will be northerners.”

“That is not…” Brienne trails off, takes in the stony determination of Sansa and the vaguely queasy expression on Jaime’s face. Firms her jaw. “I will ensure we are ready within the hour.”

* * *

It is a quiet journey, and when they arrive at the Keep, Brienne barely spares him a glance as she heads to Sansa’s quarters, leaving Jaime to be escorted to theirs by his brother. Tyrion spends the short distance giving him sympathetic glances and saying nothing at all. It is worse when they reach the modestly-appointed but suitable rooms; Tyrion shuts the door with deliberation and motions Jaime towards the far side with a jerk of his head.

“Cersei wishes to speak with you,” he says. “Or so I gathered when I went to see her and she chucked a decanter of wine at my head. She seems to believe that I and your wife have conspired to keep you from her.”

Jaime snorts. “That presumes Brienne would not be glad to be rid of me.”

His brother narrows his eyes. “Did you really injure her so greatly?”

“I don’t…” He sighs, turns away to trace fingers against the nearby table; it is easier than meeting Tyrion’s eyes. “She is so exceedingly _polite_ , when she cannot simply avoid me.”

“Oh yes, the horrors of a wife with manners. However can you bear it, brother?”

Jaime does not reply—how is he to say that Brienne has never, not once, been afraid to push back at him? That they have always understood each other too well, since the bath in Harrenhal, even when they could not understand themselves? It doesn’t matter, because Tyrion nods as if he’d expected Jaime to fuck up, ruin what happiness he’d found.

“Perhaps that will make this easier,” he says.

A cold dread coils in Jaime’s stomach at the tone, smug and sad in equal measure. “Make what easier?”

“I have arranged a boat. The crew is headed to Essos, their silence bought. One of the guards on the door to Cersei’s room will raise a commotion when you give the signal. You’ll have to leave via the window, unfortunately, but it was the best I could do on such short notice.”

Jaime stares at his brother for a long moment, unsurprised and yet somehow… _hurt_ , he realises. It is unfair, he knows—Tyrion has known more than most how often Jaime had taken Cersei’s side beyond reason or logic, and when he had not it had been for family. 

“No.”

“No you won’t leave via the window? There’s no other option, I’m afraid. It’s not a far distance.”

“No, I won’t leave. I won’t help Cersei leave. I have no intention of seeing her again.”

But he could. They could escape, and he couldn’t… he couldn’t stay with her, even if he could not return to Westeros, and Brienne. He knows it is too late for that, that the illusion of who they are has shattered beyond repair. But he could protect her, do his duty, see her safe. Safer than she has ever been, perhaps. No throne, no power, no scheming nobles to hurt her, nobody that she could hurt in return. He could not fail her, just this once, it would be so easy, so familiar. 

Tyrion sighs. “Bronn will wait for you by the kennels to take you to Cersei, and explain the arrangements. I’ll let your wife know.”

“I’m not going.” He’s not. He won’t. 

Shaking his head, Tyrion heads towards the door. “I hope you are right, though I am not certain you are. Goodbye, brother.”

He finds there is nothing to say. As the door shuts behind Tyrion, Jaime slumps into a chair, exhaling heavily, Tyrion’s certainty that he will… He would have, for far too long. Whatever words, whatever cruel actions would comfort her, he would do. _Fuck everyone_ , for years and years. He’d save her from execution, promise her they would take it all back, _fight for it, we will fight for it all_ , uncaring what carnage would follow in its wake. It is all he had known, that love meant rending the world apart in her defense because how else could he tell her?

He tries to remember the last thing he’d said to Cersei. Cannot. Something sharp, he suspects, he’d cared too little for her jibes as Brienne had— 

He doesn’t want to see her, but if he does not... . Perhaps his brother is right. Perhaps cowardice is not the answer. But he won’t save her. He won’t. 

There is no paper or ink with which to scrawl Brienne a note, and it is hardly as if he can leave _I am going to my sister to say our farewells, worry not_ when anyone might see it. He will be back before she has returned from Sansa in any case, if past nights are any indication. Drawing his nondescript cloak around him—he had not had the time to take it off, he realises, it could not have been more than a few minutes—he heads out the door and down towards the kennels. 

Bronn is lurking disreputably, in that way that is a distraction from what he is actually doing. It is a clever trick, if Jaime was not on the receiving end of it. 

“Wondered how long I’d have to freeze my balls off,” the sellsword says.

“As articulate as ever,” Jaime replies dryly. “It’s not that cold.”

“Says you, wrapped up in furs like a godsdamn northman.” He grunts, jerks his head. “Your lady awaits.”

“She’s not my lady.”

“Whatever, ya fuck. I get paid either way.”

Bronn leads him out of the Keep and through the streets of King’s Landing, a winding route in the direction of the Dragon Pit. 

“You’re to ask for more wine, when—”

“I won’t.”

“If you say.” Bronn grunts again. “Tyrion says I’m to get Highgarden, but it sounds like an awful lot of work. I don’t suppose Lady Brienne—”

“If you complete that sentence, it will be through broken teeth.”

Silence falls again, and after a few more moments of lamplit streets they arrive at their destination. 

There is nothing particularly remarkable about the house, other than the guards at the door and inside. They take his sword from him, examine him for hidden weapons, and Bronn grunts his goodbyes with a meaningful glance before Jaime climbs the dimly lit stairs to the second floor. There are two guards on this door as well, and Jaime wonders absently which one is deep enough in Tyrion’s pocket to willingly commit treason. It does not matter, he will not, but he wonders.

Inside the room, Cersei is sitting on the narrow bed, dressed in her own fine clothes—it would be so easy to imagine that nothing has changed, when she holds her head so high and smirks as if his arrival is an amusement. But there is a relief beneath it that cannot be denied, and when she stands to greet him with a kiss to his cheek he can feel her hands trembling.

“I thought my messages mislaid,” she says, arch and sharp.

“No.”

He doesn’t offer an excuse, nor wish to argue; rather than respond, Cersei merely steps away to pour wine in two goblets, and it prickles at his skin, the awareness that she has listened and chosen not to fight him directly.

“Wine?”

“No, thank you.”

Cersei brings both goblets over, sets his on the table and takes a long sip from hers, her eyes narrowed as she watches him.

“How is your wife?”

Ahh, there it is.

“She’s not a subject of discussion. Leave it, or I will leave.”

“That poorly, then?”

He thinks of the last days, of Brienne’s skittish silence and long absences, of his own restlessness. Of the longing to reach across this silent distance, yet unwilling to taint her with his strange grief.

“Leave it,” he repeats.

“Not everyone is meant to be a Lannister, brother. It is a demanding role, you can hardly be surprised some sword-wielding daughter of a minor lord is not fit for it.” She presses her lips together. “She’s loved you for years, you know; I spoke to her at Joffrey's wedding, she knew her place well enough then. It was cruel of you to convince her otherwise.”

His first impulse is to argue, make Cersei _understand_ , that he loves Brienne, that nothing she can say can harm him the way his own actions have, but he merely stands instead. “Goodbye, Cersei.”

He does not hurry, cannot quite bear to, so he is at the door when her voice, quiet and broken, reaches him.

“Jaime, wait. I do not—” she chokes, “I do not wish to be alone.”

It could be an act; she has played so many roles over the years that perhaps even she does not realise what is true. But he knows the tone, heard it after their mother’s death, and in the dark of the night when Rhaegar had married Elia Martell and Cersei—still half a child—had crawled into his bed and dropped the sharp-edged insults about Dornish princesses long enough to mourn the life she’d been promised. Half a dozen times in the intervening years. Heard it the day he’d returned to King’s Landing with their daughter’s body, when he thought she might give up entirely, _Do you remember the first time you saw a dead body?_ and _I think of her beautiful little face starting to collapse, it’s not right that she suffers alone._ And he cannot lift the grief from her, he never could no matter how hard he’d tried, but he cannot abandon her to it either. They have faced much together, over the years; he presses his hand against the wood, hangs his head.

“Brienne is not to be mentioned,” he says, staring at the stones of the floor, knowing that if he turns to face her he will break. Stay regardless of what Cersei says, say whatever words make her last hours tolerable, promise impossible things. But he still won’t save her. 

“Very well,” she says, as if it is some benevolent concession.

He turns back, crosses the small room, sits in the small chair. Cersei gives him a small smile, genuine. Small, small, small. The world is so small. He does not know what to say, what to do, but his sister does. Or perhaps it is what she needs, and that it comforts him is coincidence. 

“I wish that I could have seen a sunset at Casterly once more,” she says. Quietly. “Do you remember when we would sneak away to watch it, and only Mother ever knew where to find us?”

He remembers their mother’s smile when she found them, how she would lift them up and laugh about their adventurous nature. Remembers the shades of red and orange and purple across the sky, the way it would catch their golden hair, a little bit of magic in a mundane world. He remembers being happy.

“Of course,” he says. “She’d always bring us Cook’s poppy cakes, and I would sneak you half of mine.”

Cersei laughs, and he tries to remember the last time he heard the sound. It had been his favourite once, every time he’d won it from her a victory. Tries not to think of Tyrion’s offer, tries to find peace in these last few shared moments. It will be all that remains, soon.

* * *

Brienne intends to sleep, but when the door to their room creaks open as the sky has begun to turn the grey of pre-dawn, she is still dressed, still seated at the table waiting for something. Some confirmation that Jaime has gone, as Tyrion was certain he would, or his return. An answer, perhaps, for all the roiling guilt and fear and anger, for the distance between them. Any option would be better than the uncertainty.

It’s Jaime, his steps slow and heavy, and when he sees her he barely reacts, gives her a vague, half-hearted tilt of his lips.

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“Tyrion told me not to expect you.”

A bitter scoff. “Of course he did.”

“Did you—”

“No!” It’s nearly a shout, but the vigour lasts only a heartbeat before his shoulders slump and he examines the floor. “No, I… I couldn’t. But I _tried_ , Brienne. I tried to justify it, told myself… It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t do it, and then she asked, at the end, what I would… She doesn’t... “ he looks up at her, so utterly lost Brienne wishes she could draw him close, shield him from the pain despite the distance between them. “She doesn’t wish me to be there.”

“Do you want to be?”

Brienne doesn’t know what she’d want, in his place, can only remember the clawing loneliness of being the one left behind. 

“I—I wish I could _know_ , for certain. That it is true, that… She was scared and I can do nothing, but I wish I could know. That she was not alone before...”

_I’m sorry_ is almost laughingly inadequate for the situation, and what better words of comfort there may be elude her. But he looks hollow in his grief, and she can at least—

“I can go, in your stead.”

“She wouldn’t like that.”

“I don’t care. I’ll stand where she cannot see me.” 

“You needn’t—”

She is already rising, strapping Oathkeeper to her waist out of habit. 

“I’m sure Lady Sansa will wish for a report, it is no trouble,” she says too brusquely, too callous. “Try to rest, Jaime. You look…”

“Awful?”

She shakes her head. 

“Try to rest,” she repeats, her body brushing against his as she heads for the door. 


	8. Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore my love was infinite, if spring make’ it more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is the end. Or a beginning. Hard to say. Chapter title is from Donne's Love's Growth. There may be a followup story in some distant future.
> 
> And since I did say I'd explain the excess of Donne, it is because this story borrows more emotional moments from Sayers' Busman's Honeymoon than I care to admit. _"And what do all the great words come to in the end, but that?—I love you—I am at rest with you—I have come home."_ One day I might document the whole process, but suffice to say this chapter borrows more heavily than most. 
> 
> _"It's damnable for you too. I'm sorry. I'd forgotten. That sounds idiotic. But I've always been alone."_  
>  _"Yes, of course. I'm like that, too. I like to crawl away and hide in a corner."_  
>  _"Well," he said, with a transitory gleam of himself, "you're my corner and I've come to hide."_
> 
> I am a predictable soul.

The sun is high in the sky when Brienne returns, her face so sombre and still. He stands across the room, hand clenching, waiting, waiting, waiting for the moment that she—

She nods, once, solemnly. “It was quick. Dignified. She didn’t… It was a good death.”

“And the body?”

It’s not Cersei, he knows it’s not, Cersei is gone, nothing left but flesh to rot away, but he can’t quite bear the thought of it on display for people to spit upon and frighten their children with.

“Tyrion has arranged for it to be returned to Casterly Rock.”

He wants to sag, in relief or guilt or grief he does not know, but he moves towards Brienne instead, his steps a little unsteady as he reaches for her, needing a connection, his hand wrapping around her wrist and she lets him, she stands there and lets him. Beneath her skin he can feel the pulse, slow and deep, can feel the softness and the warmth that would surprise those who don’t know her, but he does, he knows her, he knows she won’t lie to comfort him but she will do this, she’ll watch the execution of a woman who would have her dead and return to him and tell him the truth and let him hold her wrist, and kiss her.

It’s such a soft kiss, delicate. Just lips, barely touching, the sweet heat of her breath caressing him, and it wraps its tendrils around his chest and squeezes, not painfully, just a reminder that he is alive, that his heart beats and he is _here_ , he’s stayed.

She pulls away, and it’s alright, she can— Her knuckles brush his cheek, so softly, as she whispers his name. A question, a comfort.

“I love you,” he says, because what else can he say? He’s here and he hurts and none of this changes because she is here too, but she’s here all the same.

Her chin wobbles and she nods and kisses him again, still soft. Soft, soft, even as she strips him to his underclothes, and then herself. Soft as she leads him to the bed, as her hand slips beneath his shirt to reach skin, as their legs entwine, just this. Soft as she kisses her promise that she is there, she will stay. When the exhaustion reaches them both their kisses slow but do not cease.

“My father has written,” she says quietly, when they are both halfway to sleep. “He’d like to meet you.”

“Sansa?”

“Has given me leave if I wish it.”

He hums. “I saw Tarth once. On the way to Dorne. It was beautiful.”

“Beautiful, and lonely,” she says. “I’d like to see it with you. If you…”

He laughs, and it feels strange, to laugh when grief presses in on him at all sides, but Brienne is there, shielding him just enough that he can breathe, can fill the space between them with something new.

“I’d go with you anywhere,” he admits, and the smile that splits her face is brighter than all the gold in the world, and infinitely more precious.

“Rest then,” she says, giving him a final kiss before closing her eyes, her breath falling into the evenness of sleep almost instantly.

* * *

Brienne wakes to an empty bed, and she rolls over, opening one eye. Jaime is by the window, his silhouette glowing golden in the light of the setting sun. She rubs the sleep from her lashes, the sticky drool from the side from the side of her mouth, and watches him.

He doesn’t move when she pads up behind him, when she wraps her arm around his waist and presses her forehead against his hair. His scent is so familiar, even here, even now, and she breathes in deeply.

“Have you been awake long?” she asks, her voice croaking from disuse.

“No. I didn’t want to wake you, but…” His shoulders roll. “I was thinking.”

She nuzzles the nape of his neck, tightens her arm around him. “Hmm?”

“It might have been you. Dead. And I cannot… All the things I might have done, to stop her or save her, or if you had not yielded— I think of them and realise it might have been you gone, and you’re not, and I cannot regret that. I cannot…” He turns in her arms, touches her cheek with his fingers. So tender. So certain. “Whatever the cost to stand here now, I would pay it again. Selfish of me, I know, but…”

A terrifying sensation bubbles in her chest. Hope. Happiness.

“I think,” she says slowly, “that perhaps there are times it is wise to be selfish.”

“You are…” He shakes his head. “You stood as champion, for no other reason than it was right. Kind and brave and—”

“Scared, Jaime. I was scared.”

It’s not so shameful a thing to admit, not to him, not when he smiles and strokes her cheek once more.

“Perhaps there are times it is wise to be scared.”

Perhaps there is only time.

Dinner is brought to them, and they pick at it absently as they speak, of Tarth mostly, of her father and her once home and how long they may stay, and she knows that there is a question he means to ask and cannot voice, and she waits.

* * *

It is well past nightfall, the moon casting its silver light across the room, when they head towards the bed. She sits on it, feeling the mattress dip beneath her, and he slides to the floor beside her, his legs stretched long before him and his head against her thigh. She runs her fingers through his hair.

“Tell me of it,” he says after a long moment, and so she does. How Cersei had been dressed in finery, how she’d looked nowhere but before her as she’d climbed the stairs, how she’d folded her skirts neatly as she’d bent, how her last words had been that she did not recognise any foreign queen. Maybe she says too much, or too little, but it is all she knows: here is the truth, unadorned.

He makes a strange sound, turning his head to bury against her leg—tears, she realises, torn from deep in his chest, foreign at first and so horribly familiar. She knows not what to do but sink unto her knees beside him and hold him tight, until long after his tears are spent.

* * *

It takes a fortnight to arrange their journey to Tarth. They wake the morning the ship is to dock, sleepily reaching for each other with stale breath and soft touches, and then they go aboveboard. Tarth is only a speck in the distance, for the moment, but they stand near the prow of the ship all the same, their hands resting on the rail, fingers entwined, and there has never been anything quite so beautiful.

( _If I’m to die,_ he had said all those moons ago, _let me die as your husband.  
_But it seems they are to live instead.)


End file.
